


prepense; dissociate

by SoyCaptain



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Canon Compliant, Eating Disorder, M/M, Mental Illness, Not Beta Read, One-Shot, PLEASE READ THE CWS, POV Second Person, Poetic Language, Self-Harm, i guess, my prose is so pretentious, this is how i cope ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-07-04 06:28:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15835647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoyCaptain/pseuds/SoyCaptain
Summary: "At last true words surge up from deep within our breast,The mask is snatched away, reality is left."





	prepense; dissociate

**Author's Note:**

> **PLEASE READ THE CWS AT THE END OF THE FIC FOR MORE DETAIL**
> 
> Just my Akechi feelings. Canon events with my own Flair. 
> 
> Summary quote is from Lucretius' "On Nature". Yes I am pretentious, I am aware. 
> 
> And finally, in the words of the Wise Old Ones: Don't like, don't read.

You feel triumph. You have finally mastered the ability to cause that familiar stirring in your guts--without the aid of fingers. Sweetness-tinged bile escapes you as you wretch quietly. It is practiced. It is meticulous. Much like everything else you do.

You tuck your hair behind your ears as you watch the artificial colors dance below, decorating the bowl in a saccharine mosaic. It is fitting. Fragments of your soul are evacuating from this  _ horrible, infernal  _ body; more apt to drown than burn alive inside of you. You do not mourn them. You do not know how to mourn. You could pretend, perhaps. It would not be the first time. 

Everything about you is pretend. Artificial. 

You have to tell yourself that. To survive.  _ Just a little longer.  _

Your throat aches pleasantly as you say a final goodbye to the cake you left a glowing review of on your blog. If only your followers had access to the abridged version that flashes through your mind as you gather your composure.  _ Tasted just as delicious, perhaps more, coming back up. Might I recommend a sprinkle of guilt and self-loathing to taste?  _

It is thankfully all you have eaten today. Hopefully it will be the only thing you eat for the next three days. At the very least. You could stave it off for much longer before. But your resolve has weakened. You have become cocky. And as punishment for that hubris, the public knows you for your cute, quirky sweet tooth. You bend to their will, your desire for acknowledgement outweighs your well-being--or self-hatred, even if momentarily. 

Maybe it will be okay. The end of your  _ journey _ draws near. Soon you will have a permanent home in the pages of history. Keeping up appearances will no longer matter then; a corpse has no need to count calories. But though you may feel it, you are not a corpse, and you must continue. You must continue to trudge through the muck and grime of your  _ worthless _ existence until you can finally use it to drown Masayoshi Shido. After, you’ll have exhausted your use; a human party favor exploding and leaving your remnants everywhere. 

The fantasy is always enough to hoist you from the tile floor--from a supplicated prayer to your god of vanity and malice. Your eyes are bloodshot in your humble bathroom mirror. You frown deeply at it. The hair previously tucked behind your ears has fallen back into your face, framing your eyes with a haphazard intensity. It looks uncanny--your  _ boyish charm _ lost in a flash of ferality. You can see through the seams; there are glaring holes in your facade. You cannot stand to be alone with yourself. You patch the holes with a forced grin that never quite reaches your eyes. 

Per usual. 

***

The interviewers call you a  _ heart throb.  _ Ordinary people call you a  _ pretty boy-- _ with both affection and disdain. They prod you about your fitness routine. You have prepared for this and you always manage to laugh them off with a vague comment about bicycling and a busy schedule. The tabloids can speculate, but they will never guess about the  _ running _ and  _ fighting _ you do. In fact, they would be more likely to guess about the raw knuckles peppered with ghosts of gnashing teeth that you hide behind you gloves. Or maybe the chemical burn scar tissue lining your esophagus. 

But they will not. You have made sure of that. No one knows Goro Akechi and they do not even know it. You like it that way. It allows you to feel like your life belongs to you; for the first time, you have an iota of control over your situation. Sometimes you can fool yourself. However, the illusion never persists. 

The illusion crumbles as you view the empty plate before you--a syrupy film lingers on your tongue. You feel especially disgusting. But a stewing hatred perpetually lives in your abdomen and you are able to pretend that you are happy and satisfied. 

You wonder what happiness really feels like as your leather gloved hands seek purchase in the porcelain they grip. You can feel the cool tile floor seeping into your knees through your slacks.  _ You belong on your knees.  _

Happiness. 

It is a childish thought because you know your happiness has to reside in Masayoshi Shido. It is captive inside him, waiting for you to release it in a deluge of blood absorbed into the ugly, shag carpet of his office. 

You have resigned to the fact that you will be hated for it. Your current popularity is fleeting and fickle, but you know better than anyone how hate takes root. How hate becomes a lighthouse in the fog. It is all you have and it is the only true comfort you can offer to others. So for now you practice the rescue mission with yourself, desperately attempting to extract fragments of  _ happy  _ from the ichor.  It is quick work, part of the routine. 

The floor of the public restroom is dirty and you cannot help but feel like you belong there. 

***

Coffee is allowed. It is a stimulant, it quiets your hunger pangs. It supplements energy you are not receiving.  You take it black. You pretend it is because you want to appreciate the complex flavor blend. It is good for the image of sophistication you curate. Moreover,  _ bitter and acidic  _ offers you a measure of familiarity and comfort. 

His hand brushes yours when he hands you the coffee. It lingers too long to be accidental. You smile at him despite the heat threatening to penetrate your cool and composed shell. It has been building for months; this is not the first time the barista has disturbed something inside of you. Single footprints in a snowscape over time have carved a path. You cannot let him see the dull green underneath his feet. You manage to excuse yourself without causing suspicion. You cannot tell whether you regret leaving the coffee or the man who brewed it. 

But then he calls you Goro.  _ He calls you Goro.  _ For some reason it aches. You cannot stop the shock from bubbling over, seeping around the edges of your mask. It feels wrong in his mouth. No one has called you by your given name since your mother.  _ No one.  _ And you prefer it that way--the only familiarity you need is your hatred and the small comforts you coax from your stomach. You had buried  _ Goro  _ with your mother and this infuriatingly beautiful lowlife exhumed it. 

At first, you feel guilt. You are not sure why. Maybe it is sacrilegious and you are corrupting him. Kurusu is so beautiful and you have tainted him. His smile shines a radiance you have never known and you have desecrated it with your poison on his lips. You attempt a resuscitation, pressing your lips to his and swallowing back all the venom you possibly can. 

But you know it is terminal. You know that within the year your venom will overcome him. It will manifest as a bullet between his eyes. It is the way you will show him your pain. It is all you know. Physical gestures--purging, burning, sex, violence--are the only way to mirror the fires raging beneath your mask’s airtight lock. 

You warm his bed that night. 

***

He is exceptional. He flourishes despite the overcast. It enrages you. You feel unbridled jealousy as he eats  _ like shit  _ and still possesses a magnetism. You don’t want to share him. You want to keep his radiance on your shelf, as your own personal nightlight and sunlamp. But you are limited to fleeting, transitory moments of sunrise and sunset. You hate the temporality of everything. Temporality used to be your crutch. 

You hate him for making you like this. 

He is sleeping. Muted dawnlight backlights him. Even in the morning shadows, he glows, ethereal and beautiful. He is unguarded and you are thankful for your impulse control. You feel the hate, pneumotic in your torso.  It metastasizes to your jaw and worms its way into your enamel. You clench to stop it. You want to suffocate him. It would be so easy. So merciful. 

You catch him smiling at you with half-moon eyes. His hand is cold and gentle like shadecast moss against your cheek. You have never had anyone touch you like he does. You are fighting the wildfire; protecting the secluded knoll that he has shared with you. Maybe you have an ounce of benevolence after all.  _ No, this is strategic.  _

He is glad you stayed. He might fall back asleep. You are glad for that. You cannot tell him that you stayed because you haven’t eaten and lacked the energy for the trek home after your  _ activities  _ the night before _.  _

He asks you how you slept. You did not sleep. You lie and tell him, “well.”

His arms creep around your torso, solid and stable. You do not feel secure; you almost feel claustrophobic. He tucks his head into the crook of your neck. You are overwhelmed by the smell of his shampoo. Fruity and  _ sweet _ . It churns your empty stomach. Your collarbone meets his jaw and you feel it vibrate when he speaks. It does not matter--his words already shake you. 

“I love you, Goro.” 

He mumbles and you didn’t  _ hear  _ it, but you feel the phrase against your skin. It is packaged with a smile. You can feel that too. You are glad he cannot see your expression, but he probably feels you flinch. You are terrified. You are angry. And god, you are  _ hungry.  _

This cannot continue. He has inoculated you with this  _ sickness.  _ The words break your skin and he is inside. He has seen an opening in your latticework composure. He is going to tear through and try to rip away the sinew and purulence inside you. He is going to find nothing. You have to quarantine. For both of you. 

You extricate yourself from his embrace. The room is cold and the floorboards seem to scream the words that neither of you say. The world is spinning a kaleidoscopic decoupage of browns and beiges around you. You are accustomed to distortion. You gather your belongings and the splintered fragments of your composure that  _ he _ seems to chew like toothpicks. 

But he is silent as you go. You do not look at him, but you know his expression. It is echoing off the walls of the attic. The sickness is coursing through your veins. You had unestimated the power of his antivenom. Within your emotional maelstrom, there are blips of regret. Your infrastructure is not prepared for this storm. 

He understands. 

You hate that he understands. 

***

You are screaming. It is barely stifled by the arm you have shoved against your mouth. The mesquite-colored fabric is imprinted with tears and saliva. You shake, your  muscles screaming through the lopsided position you have knotted yourself into on your bathroom floor. Your leather-gloved hand grips at your hair. It does not hurt enough. There is a hollowness in your chest where a fire once burned. Your screaming reverberates through it. Ash and rubble stir, but the emptiness aches. Everything else in your chest feels wrong, shifted and off. 

Of course you expected it to hurt. You are not  _ that  _ delusional. But your ability to dissociate from atrocity has failed you. It has been infected by _ tenderness _ . You are a fool. You are incredibly disappointed in yourself. 

The hurt was supposed to be, at the most, a bittersweet hurt. A necessary evil--like everything else. It was supposed to feel like euthanizing the family pet. Not like scraping marrow from your bones. Not like the trusted and familiar stomach acid washing into your shoulders and collarbone, aching everywhere his lips touched. 

Congratulations. You have killed the only person who loved you. 

You watched fear and betrayal play across gunmetal eyes. You saw your reflection in his blood. His corpse lays in the morgue--his hands colder than they have ever been. 

_ You are truly and utterly alone again.  _

You punch a hole in your wall. You feel nothing. You take a lighter to your skin. Then a blade. You still feel nothing. Just hollowness resonating. Just an abject pain you cannot express. This one act might be the most harm you have ever done to yourself. You are not proud. You do not feel triumph. 

In the bathroom, you have never seen the person you meet in your reflection. He is red-faced, a decorative petechiae. His face glistens--his eyes are glossed like marbles. A halo of horror engulfs him. His face contorts to accommodate bloodshot, psychotic eyes. You would vomit if there was anything left to vomit. 

But have to meet with Shido tomorrow. You are undone. It is inconvenient, but you still have an objective. You have an objective. You must complete it… Or else this will be for nothing. Or else everything will be for nothing. The absurdity is enough to straighten your spine and allow you to rifle through your medicine cabinet. For something,  _ anything  _ that can repair your mask enough to interact with  _ that bastard  _ tomorrow _.  _

Sleeping pills. You take more than necessary with an offhand hope. Not enough to kill you. Probably. 

In your semi-lucid, hypnagogic state you wonder, for the first time, if you truly are  _ justified _ . 

***

You find it funny that your first authenticity involves you wearing a mask. Both masks, internal and external, are damaged. Toting jagged holes exposing weakness beneath. You can see his eyes from across the room, tucked into the shadow of his mask. Solemn, but soft. Firm with empathy. They have defeated you, but  _ he _ knows he defeated you weeks ago. You smile, bitter and forlorn. 

You had not expected their mercy; you had accepted your Judas Complex. It seems that they had not expected it either. You are embarrassed, but relieved. This is a strange feeling.  _ Relief.  _ Learning about Kurusu’s survival had produced the same feeling, but this time it fills you. The hollowness in your chest is flooding. But only inklings of natural disaster ring--it feels more like a flooding of a drought-wrought basin. Oh God. You did not know how much you needed this. 

It is torn from you just as fast. You cannot mourn it. You do not know how. Like everything else, it leaves you feeling powerless. A righteous anger plumes. Your cognitive version is not a surprise to you. You know how Shido views you. You have made sure of that. You… Are touched by the Thieves’ anger. You resonate together--a measure of harmony among the cacophony. 

Akira is the last thing you see before the metal partition falls. It is the last time you will cut yourself off from him--but this time, it is only physical.

You are going to die here. 

But you are not afraid. 

You observe your doppelganger and realize the view--you, gun pointed--is what Akira saw in the interrogation room. You cannot help but smile. It is what you deserve. You are thrilled for your  _ poetic justice _ . A final, satisfying act of self-harm. 

You call out to him. His presence is strong behind the partition. It is comforting; his voice a hospice. You make him promise. You know he will do it anyway, but you are not sure what else to say. You want him to know that, in your final moments, you are with him. 

He promises. There is a desperation that is foreign in the cadence of his voice. Guilt bubbles within your chest, but it does not hurt like before. Because, despite the waver, you know Akira Kurusu will be alright. You know it had to be him. Your jealousy from before thrums as admiration. 

You and Akira Kurusu are one. 

And no one can take it from either of you. 

As you pull the trigger, you realize that you have been living to die for years. You did not want to kill Masayoshi Shido. You were lonely. You knew killing Shido would result in your death. And the only thing that could redeem you would be recognition. You wanted  _ love.  _ The measure of it you have experienced in the room that will be your grave has proven that. You feel grateful to be given this. 

It is quiet. 

The waters within you no longer flood. The ichor does not swirl. The fires do not conflagrate your sinew and marrow. An eigengrau envelopes you. It absorbs into your flesh, filling your cracks and scars like mortar. You think about Akira. You think about your mother. 

And you are at peace. 

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> CWs: eating disorder, suicidal ideation, homocidal ideation, self-harm, emetophobia, binging/purging, self-image issues, lots of self-hate, death, blood, guns


End file.
